Pages

Tuesday, April 29, 2014

Of course you have. It's gotten millions of views since it went viral in mid-March, and deservedly so; its powerful message spawned hundreds of copycat movements and reinvigorated the efforts of students at UCLA and University of Michigan who have been trying to communicate about their own experiences of bias. And if you haven't seen it, it's worth watching: it holds up a harsh mirror to (mis)perceptions about race that students (and others) express on an elite college campus, where you might imagine people would be more likely to be tolerant or at least thoughtful (they're not).

I found myself thinking about that project last week as the Supreme Court handed down its opinion on affirmative action. Noting Justice Roberts’s famous statement in a 2007 opinion that "the way to stop discrimination on the basis of race is to stop discriminating on the basis of race," Justice Sotomayor contended that "This ['simplistic'] refusal to accept the stark reality that race matters is
regrettable [...] The way to stop discrimination on the
basis of race is to speak openly and candidly on the subject of race,
and to apply the Constitution with eyes open to the unfortunate effects
of centuries of racial discrimination."

We are so very good at dismissing difference--especially, it seems, racial difference, and especially in higher education. We're post-racial, we say, proudly.

So how do we account for studies like the one NPR just covered, which found that faculty members were less likely to respond to mentoring requests from students they assumed to be women and "minorities," judging them based on the name they used to sign an email message? While there are additional mitigating factors like discipline (e.g. faculty were more miserly in fields tied to more "lucrative" careers, for example), it's still a disturbing trend. To stop talking about it doesn't make the problem go away. I'll never forget my trip to South Africa, and the conversations with educators there who praised our civil rights movement, imagining that we'd figured it all out. We assured them that many of the same problems of inequality still plagued our public school system, and that the only difference between our system and theirs was our inability to admit that there was a problem in the first place.

Then there are things like the Donald Sterling tapes. As Jay Smooth puts it: why do his racist words get any more attention than years of racist practices? Simple: if we don't talk about it, we can pretend it's not happening. Naming makes it so. Or not so.

I know how we can twist affirmative action in our heads. I've done it. I applied to graduate school (the first time) having checked a box that identified me as a Hispanic female. My father was technically from Spain, so I probably wasn't the Hispanic they were looking for, but he immigrated to the U.S. via Cuba, and he worked hard to accumulate what we had, even if I wasn't Mexican or Puerto Rican (though I had uncles in Puerto Rico and Guatemala). I was awarded a four year fellowship, and spent many days and nights wondering if I deserved the fellowship (because I was too white) and wondering whether I really belonged in graduate school (because I thought perhaps they'd admitted me to get "diversity" and that they'd find out at any moment what a grave mistake they'd made).

But I also know that left to our own devices, we're less likely to construct communities that are intentionally more inclusive, and that make us question our assumptions. That the concerns voiced by "I Too Am Harvard" would not go away. We are NOT post-racial. As I see it, if we want to get past a place in which we need affirmative action, we need some kind of affirmative action. We need to make sure that the diverse student body showing up at faculty offices for mentoring are not the exception but the norm, and that those students find the mentors they need. We need to ensure that the students who started the movement at Harvard are present on our college campuses, challenging what we think about race in the 21st century.

We had about five hundred students visiting campus yesterday, and as I looked out at the sea of eager faces, I was grateful to see so much difference. I'm lucky to work at a place that--even if it doesn't use affirmative action in admissions decisions--does see itself as responsible to students who are from first generation and low income backgrounds. I'll look forward to their arrival on campus in September, when they, like the many classes that have come before them, remind me that I still have a lot to learn.

BobotieI had bobotie for the first time when I was on a study tour of private and public schools in post-apartheid South Africa. The mix of salt and sweet and spice, the Dutch and South Asian influence, is unlike anything else I've tasted (though my husband calls it curried meat loaf). You can make it with pretty much anything: the custard and curry/chutney mix are what make it distinctive. Typically the custard floats on top, separated, its own layer. I mixed them together a bit, knowing that some people in my family would be more likely to eat it when they couldn't identify the egg, and I prefer the mixed version, anyway.

Gently
squeeze the bulk of the milk from the soaked bread and crumble the
moistened slices into the meat mixture, stirring well. Add 1 egg and
stir well. (You can also do what I did, and add all of the eggs together. Your meat/veggies won't be quite as well bound, but you can also stir the custard in just a bit so that some of it is mixed in, and some remains on top.)

Beat the remaining 2 eggs in to the leftover milk and add turmeric. Scrape meat/veggies mixture in to a casserole dish and flatten the top. Pour egg mixture over the meat/veggies and top with bay leaves. Bake for 45 minutes or until custard topping is set and lightly golden.

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Though I'd never imagined that I'd be the sort of person to identify first as a mom, it started, as many convictions do, with rejection. Another mother and I had tried to join a stay-at-home mom's group to make friends for ourselves and our one-year-old children, but there was one catch: we both worked full time. As you might imagine, that didn't work out so well.

Desperate for connection with other local parents, we'd sometimes even take a vacation day from work, just to attend a playdate. We hosted get-togethers on the weekends when we could, which no one attended. We posted to the bulletin board online, trying to befriend the other members. Our efforts weren't enough; finally, the leaders asked us to leave the group, citing the threat to group safety from people who weren't fully committed, who didn't attend enough meetings.

I don't remember which of us suggested creating our rogue group first; all I remember is that she asked me to be in charge. Comfortable with overcommitment, I agreed. No problem. We decided to host the group on Meetup, and to see what might happen.

At first, we were small. Five or six mothers who got together on a semi-regular basis with and without our children, none of us likely friends. I remember watching the friendships form, thinking how funny it was that I'd somehow linked these random strangers, how eventually they found themselves unable to imagine a life without each other. They were inseparable, in person, but especially--because we were all so busy--online. They were lifelines for each other in the worst storms. They watched each others' children, supported each other through separation and loss and divorce. And though I was never exactly part of the network, I was satisfied with the knowledge that I was the glue that held them together, the connective node.

We grew, and though members came and went, the core remained stable, long after the stay-at-home-mom's group we originally left had dissolved. Children grew up, more children were born. Eventually, the members with the oldest children no longer attended playdates; they'd found the people they'd set out to meet, and they no longer needed the group to organize. They'd send around invitations to each other to get together for drinks, or to birthday parties, or to meet at the park. I kept the group running, knowing that newer members still needed it, and watched the others go their separate ways, together, taking my glue with them.

Then, two summers ago, my co-founder, recently separated from her husband, was found dead in a hotel room in Atlantic City, her two children, then 3 and 5, trying to wake her up. The police, the prosecutor, and so many people I talked with again and again on the phone and over coffee at my dining room table called it an overdose. Thought we were never able to convince anyone with authority to believe us, those of us who knew her knew that the pieces didn't add up, that what happened was something much more terrible.

On the night before her burial, we gathered on the porch of the funeral parlor, some of us smoking, all of us blaming ourselves for not staying together, wishing she'd called us that night, promising to remember her, promising to see each other more often, talking smack about planting a tree in her honor, like the thin promises in high school year books. I was angry, wondering whether her death would mean anything, even to these women whose friendship we'd made possible.

Still, I kept the group alive, half-heartedly, feeling like it was important, but not knowing why. Only one of the members besides me remembered my co-founder, and finally I handed the reins to her late last year, feeling like I no longer had time or motivation to organize events. Though my daughter is now the age of most of their children, I felt disconnected; acutely aware of the fact the my first child was so much older than theirs in conversations about feeding and bathroom habits, I realized I'm more like an older sibling than a peer. It was time for me to step aside.

And yet, a few weekends ago, after initially declining the invitation, my daughter and I went to a birthday party for one of the members' children. I wasn't sure I'd know anyone there, since it had been so long, wasn't even sure I wanted to go, but as the guests started to arrive, it dawned on me: most of them were members of the moms' group, the newest incarnation of the core. Watching them connect and disconnect, looking after each others' children at the indoor playground, made my heart feel like it would explode. It didn't matter that I didn't know them all that well. What mattered was that we had laid a strong enough foundation for a sustainable future. The glue had stuck after all. For the first time, I felt at peace walking away.

I don't usually see ghosts, but I've been seeing my co-founder everywhere lately. Driving a SUV past me as I'm stopped at a light. Walking down the street, holding her children's hands, sporting her signature sunglasses. Enjoying a cone at Rita's. Every logical cell in my body knows that it can't be her, but every time, I do a double-take, and every time, I'm reminded of the ripple effects of my smallest, most inconsequential actions. This is legacy: the continuity of belief, of ideals, of opportunity.

I know I'm supposed to be craving berries right now, or lemon, or things that remind me of spring. But something in me still wants motherhood and apple pie. I saw something like this dessert, which I made about a month ago, in the dining hall the other day, and I cut myself a generous slice, heart somewhere in my throat, grateful for the chance to make a difference, in this, and in so many things in my life. Here's to you, S., and to the little legacies that matter, to one person, or to thousands.

For the pastry, combine the flour, sugar, and salt (preferably in a
food processor fitted with a steel blade. Pulse a few times to combine).
Cut the butter into the flour mixture butter is the
size of peas. Add the ice water 1 T. at a time and continue to pulse or cut in until combined
but stop just before the dough comes together. Gather the dough into a ball; flatten into a disc. Wrap the
disc in plastic and refrigerate for at least one hour.

Preheat the oven to 375 F.

Roll the dough into a 14-inch circle on a lightly floured
parchment paper. Transfer to a baking sheet.

Combine the flour, sugar, cardamom, and allspice in a large bowl. Add the pears and cranberries; toss to combine. Add Poire Williams (or other similar liquid of your choice) and toss again to moisten. Turn the pear mixture out onto the dough, leaving a 1
1/2" to 2" border. Gently fold the border of each tart over the pears,
pleating it to make a circle.

Beat the egg and brush the edges of the crust with beaten egg. Sprinkle coated crust with sugar.

Bake the crostata for 1 hour or until the crust is golden. Cover the edges of the crostata with aluminum foil and bake another 15 minutes or so, until bubbly. Let the tart cool for 5 minutes, then use 2 large
spatulas to transfer it to a wire rack to cool completely.

Tuesday, April 8, 2014

I looked up from my computer screen to see my boss standing in the doorway of my office, and jumped about three inches.

"Sorry, didn't meant to startle," he apologized. I waved it off, knowing that I do the same to him, what must seem like twenty times a day. "Sooo ..." he continued, trying to sound nonchalant, "... do you have a favorite food?"

"Umm .." that's random, I thought, wrinkling my brow, wondering why he'd be asking, fleetingly imagining that someone was going to throw me a party for some reason I wasn't privy to, and then wondering if I did actually
have a favorite.

He wasn't actually waiting for an answer, though: "Ah! Your blog. Of course you do. So you know about these chef's dinners ..."

Well,
sort of. I'd heard something about the college Master being the center of attention at events featuring passion fruit chiffon pie and Spam, menu items of his choosing (he hails from Hawaii). But what I didn't fully appreciate is that this is a yearly event, at which someone in the college is asked to be a Master Chef for a night, and choose a dish for which they provide a recipe and which they then cook at an assembly station in the dining hall for the entertainment of students, wearing a
personalized embroidered Dining Services chef's jacket. Apparently,
everyone in the office had collectively decided, without my knowledge, that I would be the willing victim honoree this year. My boss explained all of this, a fait accompli.

"You can't really say no," he admitted. "You're being set up. But just think about how great this could be for your blog."

Right, I thought. The blog I hardly maintain any more. "Well, if I can't refuse ..."

"Good. It's all settled, then. It's an honor!" he assured me, retreating to his office before I could protest further.

The truth is, I've always thought it would be fun to be a chef for a day. Years ago, there was a company called "Vocation Vacations" that would let you (for a fee) play at another career for a few days, shadowing someone who was well-established in their field. I remember browsing the vacations, imagining myself as an artisan chocolatier, or a sommelier, or a chef. (Unfortunately, there were no writers to shadow; that work was apparently too solitary and serious to share with a mere "vacationer.") I've baked for friends on and off over the years, and when I was home with my daughter, I briefly entertained the thought of opening a cafe, but I happen to know some people who work or worked in the restaurant business, so I never took that option seriously. Besides, I really do love what I do for a living. But a day to try something else, with no strings attached?

Because I take everything too seriously, I
pored over my blog and scanned foodgawker for the next few days, having a semi-existential crisis. How could any self-respecting foodie blogger (notice, not "food blogger") not have a favorite food? I needed a main course: what could I propose to make that would feed a dining hall full of several hundred hungry college students? It had to be scalable, not too time-intensive, reasonably priced. It couldn't be something they make regularly. I didn't want pasta. Finally, I lit upon paella. Rice was the answer to the problem of scalability. Not exactly my favorite food, even if I did have one, but a childhood throwback. I built a menu of possibilities around it, and sent an email off to the head chef.

Later in the week, I was invited to an office in the bowels of the dining hall (past the largest tins of tomato sauce I've ever seen) to discuss the menu. I offered a few ideas, not knowing how much they wanted to undertake (they prepare the vast majority of the meal in the back while the Master Chef cooks it in the front, channeling the magic of Food Network), and they decided to make three dishes, the paella, caldo gallego, and a kale salad with a maple cinnamon dressing. They sounded excited, and said that I shouldn't worry; they'd make me "look good." I wouldn't even need to do much cooking, beyond providing them with recipes. That was worrisome enough: what if they were a flop? These were professionals. What would they think?

On the day of my debut, I showed up in the dining hall just before the dinner hour, where I donned my personalized chef jacket and Cordon Bleu hat. The chefs showed me what they'd prepped, and what I'd need to do to make it look authentic. I got to taste everything they'd made; it was all perfect.

And so I spent the next hour sauteeing vegetables, adding rice and broth and protein to the pan, and serving up heaping spoons of beautiful yellow paella and soup to the undergraduates, who kept coming back for seconds. (The sous chef told me, privately, that he thought it might have been the first time a ham hock had entered the building, and that he loved the soup, and the chef confessed that he may have bought $120 worth of saffron for the occasion that he had to keep locked in his desk.) The university photographer took lots of pictures, which they posted on Facebook. Friends told me afterwards that I look entirely too comfortable in a chef's jacket.

Would I do it again?

Absolutely.

Just don't tell my boss. Yet.

What would your Vocation Vacation be?

Paella Mixta

(It doesn't spend hours in a Valencian oven. But it works, and apparently, can feed a cast of hundreds.)

1 ½ lbs. chicken, skinned

¾ t. salt, divided

¼ t. fresh ground black pepper

3 t. vegetable oil

1 c. chopped onion

½ c. chopped red bell pepper

1 ½ c. Arborio rice

½ c. diced plum tomato

1 t. pimentón (smoked paprika … sweet paprika also works,
but is a little less authentic)

¼ t. saffron, crushed

1 garlic clove, minced

1 ½ c. chicken broth

1 ½ c. clam juice (I’ve also made it with only chicken
broth in a pinch)

¾ lb. large shrimp

1 c. diagonally cut asparagus

½ c. frozen green peas, thawed

Preheat oven to 400.

Sprinkle chicken with salt and pepper, heat 2 t. oil in a
large oven-safe pan and cook 3 minutes each side until lightly browned.
Remove chicken from pan and keep warm.

Add 1 t. oil to the pan, and add onion and pepper; cook
until translucent. Add rice, tomato, paprika, saffron, and garlic, and
cook until fragrant (1 minute or so). Return chicken to the pan and add
broth, clam juice, and salt. Bring to a boil, and cover the page; bake at
400 for about 10 minutes. Stir in shrimp, asparagus, and peas; cover and
bake another 5 minutes, or until shrimp are done.

Sunday, April 6, 2014

The appraisal came in at $50k less than what we had agreed to pay, and after a lot of gut-wrenching speculation and conversation, we decided to cancel the contract and invite the sellers to renegotiate.

They weren't interested.

I'm a mix of sad and frustrated. Sad because even if it wasn't the perfect house, it was right in a lot of ways. There was room for the kids to grow. It was right in town, walking distance to everything. There was a park down the street. Nice neighbors. Newer, and not requiring a lot of maintenance. Even the rooms were the right color.

Mad, because I feel like we were hoodwinked. Even if the appraisal was off, how could it has been off that much? And if everyone else is going to have the same experience, why would they do this? How will anyone get a mortgage for more than the house is worth?

The strangest thing is that the experience reminded me, to a lesser degree, of the way I felt after our miscarriages. You do so much planning. You throw away the things you no longer need in order to acquire new ones. You start imagining furniture where you think it belongs. Perhaps you imagine yourself biking (taking a stroller) through your new neighborhood, talking with your new neighbors. You think about the way the breeze will feel at night when the windows are open, what the train (baby) will sound like when it rumbles by in the night. You start packing. You tell everyone what your new address (due date, etc.) will be, and they all congratulate you.

And then suddenly your changed plans go back to unchanged plans. You tell yourself that you're not going to tell anyone next time, not until the end is inevitable. Because it hurts too much to go down that road backwards.

Even the advice and words of comfort sound bizarrely familiar: Maybe you were lucky; maybe you dodged a bullet. Not to worry, you'll find another house. It was Fate.

Of course, losing a house-to-be is not the same as losing a child-to-be. Unlike in pregnancy loss, we had some control over this process, at least until the end, when we were left wondering whether we should have taken the risk we took. And you can always try to find another house, when you can't always have another child. Even if you do, the child that comes doesn't replace the other(s) that might have been. The ghost children haunt you sometimes; thankfully, there are no ghost houses.

so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

If we practice it, write it, perhaps we can gain mastery over losing, no?

If only it were that simple.

We'll figure something out. Maybe we won't move after all. But in the meantime, comfort food was designed for times like these. I made these pies a while back during a blustery weekend in March, when everyone else was pretending to be Irish. Maybe you'll find them comforting, too.

Mix together the flour,salt, pepper, and paprika. Rinse the beef and pat dry with a paper towel, then roll the beef cubes in flour.

In a large dutch oven, cook the bacon until crisp, and set aside to drain, reserving 3 T. bacon fat. Add the beef (seitan) to the bacon drippings, and brown on all sides. Return all the beef and bacon to the pot, add the Guinness, scraping up the brown bit, then stock, onion, carrots, and potatoes.

Reduce the heat, cover, and simmer for 25 minutes. Stir in the peas until just heated, divide the stew among eight oven-safe soup crocks or similar dish, and top each with a half of a biscuit. Bake 350 for 20 minutes (or until biscuits are cooked through--or be stubborn and bake your biscuits separately).

Thursday, April 3, 2014

It's been a stressful few weeks. Cleaning, de-cluttering, phone
calls, paperwork, making (and keeping) everything immaculate, upcoming
travel again for S. and visit from the mother-in-law who will be
watching the kids in the house during our first week of listing ... and
then I had an accident the other day on the way to work.

I remember the split second when I realized what was going to happen;
it was like slow motion, watching my car come closer to his bumper, but
also like fast forward, because somehow my car was moving much
faster than it should have been, given that I'd been at a complete stop. It
was exactly how I imagine a real time warp might be. I still don't really understand what happened.

The
other driver sustained a mild concussion. My car sustained some
serious damage. I cried hysterically for half an hour, particularly
when the ambulance took the other driver away on a stretcher, with his
neck in a brace. My stomach has been in knots; I called that
afternoon to see how he was, and the next day to leave more insurance
information with his wife, but I haven't called since, because I don't
want him to feel like I'm stalking him.

We have
pretty good insurance, and I hope that behind the scenes they are
working with the other driver to get his bills paid, and make sure that
he's OK. I worry about him. In the meantime, though, letters from lawyers offering to
represent me have starting coming in, and that makes me worry, too. Doubtless
he's getting the same letters from people offering to represent him, and
what if he decides it's worth his while to hire one?

Everyone
reassures me that accidents happen, that I'm not the only one, that I
should forgive myself. I'm grateful for those kind words. But trying to do so has made me appreciate just how many
social forces work against forgiveness. There are people out there whose jobs are to prevent us from forgiving each other and ourselves. You'll pay for this, they say, even if we already have paid.

I'm
eating ginger to calm my stomach. And counteracting that with pints of
ice cream and chocolate chip cookies, which I am pretending make me
feel better.

What are the things you have a hard
time forgiving yourself for? Has anyone ever forgiven you for something
you felt you didn't deserve to be forgiven for?

Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Salt well, and cook the pasta as the package directs. Drain and set aside.

While
the noodles are cooking, melt the coconut oil in a large
soup pot over medium high heat. Saute the shallots in coconut oil until
just beginning to caramelize. Add the coconut milk, water, ginger, and
salt, and bring to a gentle boil. Reduce the heat to medium-low and
simmer for
ten minutes.

During the last two or three minutes of cooking, add the
vegetables to the simmering coconut broth, and cook until just tender. Arrange a pile of noodles in each bowl, and ladle
vegetables and broth over the noodles. Garnish, if desired, with chopped cilantro.